


Good Harmless Fun

by Cerberusia



Category: Callan (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-File on a Jolly Miller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: A bit of hurt/comfort after Meres is knocked out inFile on a Jolly Millerand Callan has to ask if he's dead. Well, as comforting as Callan gets.





	Good Harmless Fun

Callan drove. Meres had taken a nasty knock on the head, and though Callan still wished he'd got to see the blow that did it, his stomach kept replaying the sick clench he'd felt when he'd though Meres might be dead. He knew he'd been harsher with Christina Lund afterwards than he had to be; though not as harsh as Meres would have been. Callan knew how unbearable Toby found it to be knocked down by a woman.

Time was, he'd have felt very little over the demise of Toby Meres beyond a small measure of relief and the recognition that he could well suffer the same fate; but that job to get the new Hunter from the Wall with just Meres for back-up had eroded some of his detestation. Meres had been shockingly bearable on that mission, even in close quarters. Not appeasing, precisely, but with a distinct sense of camaraderie towards Callan. Considering that only a year ago Meres would happily have left him for the German patrol to pick off - indeed, ensured it, if it would allow him to step into Callan's size eights - this was a marked change in their working relationship.

Meres had moved since Callan had last visited him at home; that was years ago, now, when he'd crept in and knocked Toby out so he might steal his gun; then he'd woken him up again and threatened him. And there had been that poor silly nit, Susan Marsden. That was Meres' type: vulnerable.

The new place was another Chelsea box, another display of Meres' _private means_. Neatly painted front door, gaily colourful window boxes that Callan was quite sure Meres did not maintain himself. By no means the grandest of the row, but still Chelsea.

When Meres didn't immediately fling open the door or make a caustic comment, Callan looked at him more carefully, slumped in the passenger seat. Still breathing, still conscious, still clutching the roll of microfilm for Hunter. But he looked unwell.

Callan leaned over and opened the passenger side door.

"Out," he said. "Or I'll carry you in and really give the neighbours something to talk about."

"Over the threshold bridal style, if you please, not fireman's carry." Not dying, then, or at least not immediately. But after a moment Meres slid elegantly out of the car, and Callan followed.

Once he'd seen Meres get the key in the lock, he ought to have left him to it. Collegiality only went so far in the Section, and especially in his relationship with Meres. Instead, he followed Meres inside.

Meres stared at him in bafflement as he shut the door behind him. He raised his eyebrows, then looked as if he regretted it.

"Come to case the joint," said Callan. "Don't know the layout of this one yet." From what he could see, it was much the same as the old one. Hopefully without a stoned girl in a dressing-gown hanging about upstairs.

Meres' lip curled, probably in distaste at the memory of the poor showing he'd made last time. Nevertheless, he said,

"And to check for likely hiding spots for spare firearms, no doubt. Go and put the kettle on while you're at it, won't you?"

The kitchen looked only marginally more used than the last. The fridge yielded milk, eggs, and very little else. Still not eating in much, then. Still, there was tea and coffee, and mugs - pretty china things - to put them in. Callan brewed up and picked the most floral mug he could find for Meres, securing a lozenge-patterned eau-de-nil one for himself, and went back upstairs to check that Meres hadn't passed out again.

He found Meres sitting on the lip of the bath, blister packet of painkillers on the counter and water for taking them in hand, prodding gingerly at where Lund had coshed him.

"Here," said Callan, setting down the tea next to the sink and pushing away Meres' hands. He knew what a bastard it could be to examine your own head wound. Meres let him, eyeing the mugs he'd picked with a sardonic expression.

"Really, David, it wasn't so bad as all that."

"So I see. No blood, but you'll have a nasty lump tomorrow. Hope you've got a bag of frozen peas somewhere, because there's sod-all but milk and teabags in your kitchen." Callan let go of him. He didn't say _I thought you were dead for a sec._ Meres would only be facetious.

"Thank you, Doctor," Meres simpered. "I think you'll find the freezer adequately stocked with cold compresses. Now, are we going to drink our tea sitting here on the edge of the bath, or would you like a sofa?"

"It has a certain ambience." Callan didn't say _Tell me, do you keep the pot for your girlfriends in the medicine cabinet, or by the bed?_ He followed Meres back downstairs and took the liberty of adding a tot of whiskey to his tea from the drinks cabinet. Meres, slumped in an armchair, raised an eyebrow.

"None for you, you've just been coshed on the head." Alcohol, head wounds and strong painkillers didn't mix - not that he paid much attention to such advice himself.

"And if that didn't finish me off, I doubt a hot toddy will." But Meres just drank his un-interfered-with tea out of his floral mug, and colour gradually returned to his cheeks. Lund must have struck him a nasty blow indeed, because Meres was made of tough stuff. Callan might needle him: just how had Lund got the drop on him? Tut tut, Toby, you keep saying I'm past it, but what about you, hey? Not quite thirty and already getting coshed by CIA birds.

But that would provoke a fight, which would spill his adulterated tea and do no good for Meres' head. Meres would make needling comments on his own when the effort of being nice was too great, or the concussion wore off. As ever, the best tactic for dealing with Meres was to appear impervious.

The silence was companionable, which was a pleasant change from Meres' usual restless energy, always seeking a target for whatever unpleasantness was at hand. It was probably the concussion. Callan might not go so far as to wish that Meres would get himself concussed more often, but it did make him much more pleasant company.

"I'll take the car back to the Section," he announced once he'd finished his tea. "Give me the microfiche and I'll report to Hunter when I do it. No point in both of us going."

Meres took the roll out of his pocket and handed it over without a word. He didn’t need to: his face was full of suspicion. Callan flashed him a broad, facetious smile.

"Be seeing you, Toby. Try not to get belted in the head for the next few days - might shake something loose." And with this advice, Callan sauntered from the living room, down the narrow hallway, and out the front door. Meres' silent bafflement followed him.

He would elide, in his report to Hunter, that Meres had managed to get himself knocked out. This was not out of a sense of honour: he knew Meres would not do the same for him. But because he had felt that lurch in his stomach when faced with Meres' motionless body; and because doing a kind deed was a harmless way to confuse and irritate Meres, who understood only what people did to their own advantage. He would spend days trying to work out what Callan had to gain by his omission, and Callan would be entertained the while. Good, harmless fun – the only chance you got for some, in this job.


End file.
